


when I close my eyes I feel it all again

by goldheartedsky, nog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: And Re-Establishing Relationships, Because I’m predictable, Bucky Barnes Has PTSD, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes's Trigger Words, Bucky and Steve are on the run, Captain America Reverse Big Bang 2019, Discussion of Nazi Medical Experimentation, Domestic Bliss, Established Relationship, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, I swear, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Past Torture, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Protective Steve Rogers, Queer Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Set after the Vienna Bombing, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, With some Angst thrown in there, all of the bad things are really menial in this, the best bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-16 20:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19325392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldheartedsky/pseuds/goldheartedsky, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nog/pseuds/nog
Summary: “Come with me.”Bucky freezes like he did almost eighty-two years ago when Steve had first kissed him.“Please come with me,” Steve begs, pushing himself up on his knees. “Please don’t run again. I can’t…I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch you slip through my fingers again.”Bucky and Steve go on the run. Then, they stop running and put down roots.





	when I close my eyes I feel it all again

**Author's Note:**

> Here’s my offering for the 2019 Cap RBB!
> 
> I truly loved writing this and it’s a fic that I’m fiercely proud of. I was worried I was only going to be able to write 5k and it ended up being 12,000 words, especially since this all happened in three weeks.
> 
> Xhogi’s art is amazing and I’m so happy I got to do this collaboration! Enjoy!
> 
> Note: Canon compliant up until the Vienna bombing

 

 

* * *

 

It’s been three days.

Three days since the bombing and three days since Peggy’s funeral and he hasn’t slept at all since that morning. He’s running on fumes and black coffee and it’s not enough.

No, that wasn’t entirely true. He hadn’t slept since he got the news about her. He had stayed up the entire night, replaying everything in his head; that rush he felt when he first saw her and then the guilt of still wanting her when he loved Bucky. He had been forgiven many times over those two years—but after the train, there wasn’t anyone to offer absolution.

And now Peggy was gone too.

God, he’s so tired.

He’s in Bucharest, dead in the city’s center, breaking into the building’s basement unit. Whoever lives here has left the window unlocked, allowing him inside without worrying about breaking glass or picking locks. The building is quiet for midday, a child crying in one of the hallways as he moves silently through the stairwell.

The apartment is on the twentieth floor and it takes him a minute to get through the three locks in the door. But once he does, there’s a overwhelming sense of home. He feels it in the sparse furniture, in the dirty table, threadbare furniture, and empty cabinets. It feels like when they had moved in together, five months after his Ma had died, when they had five dollars to their names and were sharing a single bed out in the small single room.

They had been happy though, closing curtains to steal kisses in the darkness, touching each other’s skin in the moonlight. It had been easier then. Nothing was easy now.

He had tried to pretend that he could just jump back into a fight—begin following orders again—but every time he thought he was adjusting, something out of his past would come back from the dead. After he found out Peggy was alive, he didn’t sleep for a week. After he found out Bucky was alive? God, he didn’t sleep for a month, could barely eat anything for almost six; his skin crawled for a year.

And now he was here.

The worn mattress is propped up on water stained pallets, topped with a single pillow and a sleeping bag. It makes his heart hurt, a deep stabbing pain when he thinks about his love living like this. He should have been able to prevent all of this. If only he had stayed conscious. If only he had pulled the soldier out of Hydra’s conditioning sooner.

God, he’s so fucking _tired_.

There’s a notebook on top of the fridge and he picks it up with shaking hands. He takes off his helmet and rubs his dry eyes with the heel of his hand, trying to stave off the crawling lights in his vision. There’s a dull ache in the back of his skull, at the very top of his neck, and the soft _thunk_ of his helmet against the top of the fridge only aggravates it.

Flipping through the notebook, there are lines of Hebrew and Cyrillic letters he can’t read and a couple shaky images of men with dark eyes. He flips to another tab and finds his own face staring back at him from the Smithsonian pamphlet. His name is scribbled next to it with a question mark and a word in Hebrew letters underneath. For once, he wishes he had an A.I. of his own to decode everything the soldier had tried to hide.

“Cap? You copy?” a voice crackles through the comm.

“Yeah, Sam, I’m here. Everything alright?”

“Any sign of him? I’m still six hours out of the city.”

Sam had told him to go the moment Sharon had handed him the file the day after the bombing. One quick glance was all he needed. He had taken off with his uniform and shield and hadn’t looked back. Sam had said something about creating a distraction. By the time he passed Bratislava, there were news reports of a similar, undetonated bomb found in the empty Parliament building in Prague. Sam hasn’t admitted how he pulled the stunt off, but it had bought them time.

“Steve?”

“Bucky’s been living here, but he hasn’t come home yet. I’ll let you know when he does.”

The line is quiet for a moment before Sam murmurs, “Okay. Stay safe, man.”

He puts the notebook back where it was as the comm beeps dead. It’s so eerily quiet that all he can hear is the blood pounding through his ears. He leans agains the counter and feels that heavy weight of tiredness pull at his eyelids.

God, it even smells like Bucky in here. Not the bitter chemicals, leather, and bleach that lingered around the Winter Soldier, but the warm scent of sweat, rope, and oranges that the older man used to constantly carry around before the war. Before the war seemed to be a hell of a lot like after the war, now.

His eyes slip shut and his head drops, if only for just a second.

He has to stay awake, he has to wait for Bucky; he has to do everything he should’ve done two years ago when they were _right_ next to each other. He should’ve stayed awake, he should’ve brought them both home. This was all his fault—he should’ve fucking done more.

His eyes flutter closed again and everything just becomes too much.

Sliding down against the cabinets, he lets himself slump quietly on the floor. His legs ache from running for so long through the countryside, his back hurts from the lack of sleep and food, and he is so goddamn tired. His hands fall into his lap and he leans back against the doors, the shield curving his spine.

He’s never been allowed to rest. Not from the day he was born, battling every day for his life against the sickness and rot that threatened him at every turn; not from the day he was injected with Howard’s serum, paraded in front of senators, congressmen, and the public as a dancing monkey; not from the day he stepped onto the battlefield and never left. Never a moment of respite, never a time where he wasn’t constantly on guard.

Why did it always have to be his responsibility?

Letting out a quiet sigh in the silence of the apartment, he stretches his legs out across the dirty linoleum. His boots leave a small black scuff and he knows he should wipe it clean, but he’s too exhausted to move.

He thinks about his Ma, thinks about Peggy, thinks about Bucky, back before everything went to hell.

His eyes slip shut again.

* * *

* * *

_“Buck, its too damn hot t’move,” he whines, stretching his legs out on the fire escape. Sweat sticks his undershirt to his back where it rides up from his pants. His hair is damp and curling at the back of his neck. He pushes his bangs from his forehead and lets out a quiet sigh. “Seriously, Buck, I think I’m melting.”_

_“Stevie, you ain’t meltin’,” the older boy says, lighting up another cigarette. They’ve been sitting outside since the sun’s gone down and the moon is peeking though the clouds now. The match illuminates Bucky’s tan face, eyes concentrating on the rolled end of the smoke in his mouth. “Yer bein’ a baby,” he mutters, the glowing end of the cigarette bouncing between his clenched teeth. “Ain’t that hot. It’s night.”_

_“I’m hooooot,” Steve complains again, leaning his head back on the bars. “Go buy me an ice pop.”_

_“Too late for an ice pop, should’a asked me an hour ago.”_

_“Maybe I’m running a fever again,” he says, rolling his pant legs up to his knees. “Maybe I’m getting sick.”_

_Bucky grumbles and shuffles up onto his knees. He moves the cigarette to his hand and crawls across the fire escape to sit in between Steve’s legs. They’re close enough that he can see the slight burn across the seventeen year old’s nose and cheeks, even in the moonlight. Bucky is tanner than ever, having spent the summer working down at the docks. Steve can feel the rope-worn calluses on his hand when he presses his palm to the blond’s forehead._

_“Whatcha think?” Steve whispers, his mouth suddenly dry. “Am I sick?”_

_Something flickers across Bucky’s face that he can’t read and the older boy’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Pretty sure you’re fine, Stevie,” he says softly, pupils blown in the low light. He doesn’t move from the spot in his lap and Steve just wants to grab him and kiss him til he has an asthma attack. “...S’far as I can tell.”_

_Do it, Rogers! Stop being a chickenshit!_

_They stare at each other, hearts pounding and lungs ragged. He watches Bucky swallow thicklyand move back the slightest inch. Now or fucking never._

_Grabbing the collar of Bucky’s shirt, he sees the seventeen year old’s eyes widen before Steve crushes their lips together, kissing him like he should’ve done all their lives. Electricity shoots up his spine and the world begins to spin off its axis around them. “God, I love you,” he gasps when he feels Bucky’s hands come up around his face. “God, I’ve loved you for so long.”_

_All he can smell is sweat and cigarette smoke. All he can taste is Bucky._

_Bucky sits back on his legs and pulls Steve into his lap, one hand dropping down to wrap around his waist. “We gotta—” he breathes into Steve’s mouth, running his fingers through blond hair. “We gotta go inside. Someone’s gonna see.”_

_“Let ‘em see,” the sixteen year old pants, kissing Bucky again. Their bodies fit together better than he ever could have imagined. His heart keeps skipping beats every time the brunet’s thumb drags across the exposed skin at the top of his pants. Maybe he does have a fever, maybe he is sick, because every inch of his body feels like it’s on fire._

_The cigarette falls from Bucky’s fingers down to the alley below._

* * *

“How did you find me?”

His head snaps up, body jolting roughly out of his dream.

Then Steve sees him.

Maybe he’s still dreaming. He has to be.

There Bucky is, standing in front of him, all flesh and blood and real. His hair is an inch or so shorter than when Steve had last seen him, but his face looks worn, looks _stretched_. Steve blinks tiredly and says, “You came back.”

The soldier stares at him, eyes dark and unreadable. He pulls the gloves from his hands, revealing the glint of metal in the newspaper filtered sunlight. There’s a moment when Bucky’s shoulders tense and his fingers flex as if they’re going to pull into fists, and Steve is sure he’s going to run. But he doesn’t, only silently drops the gloves on the table.

“Do you know who I am?” he whispers, looking up at Bucky, still unable to move from his spot on the floor.

The older man looks at the floor and blinks a couple times. “You’re Steve,” he mutters, like it isn’t the most important thing in the world. “I read about y—” His voice falters for a second and there’s a far off darkness in Bucky’s eyes. His eyes flood for a half second as he meets Steve’s gaze. “I read about us in a museum.”

Steve shifts, pushing himself further upright, and his heart stops when Bucky takes a nervous step back. He shakes his head, holding a still-trembling hand out, and begs, “Please, don’t go. Don’t run again.”

He knows how he sounds, broken and delirious, but he’s not going to survive if Bucky leaves him again.

“I wasn’t in Vienna,” the soldier whispers, metal hand twisting around flesh fingers.

“I know.”

“I don’t do that anymore. I never wanted to in the first place.”

He nods, a sob catching in his chest as he chokes out a quiet, “I know.” He’s not sure how long he was asleep, but it certainly wasn’t long enough to pull him out of the haze. Everything feels heavy and maybe he’s still dreaming. He has to be.

Bucky pulls one of the metal dining chairs across the floor, a harsh, scraping sound echoing in the silent apartment, and drops down with a heavy thud. He takes a deep breath and looks up at Steve. “How did you find me?” he asks, a biting edge to his monotone voice. “I’ve done a good job of staying two steps ahead of you and Wilson.”

“How do you know Sam?”

He shrugs a little, metal shoulder rolling like it’s still too heavy for him, and mutters, “I saw him coming in through my apartment in Marrakesh. I remember him from the flight deck, at least flashes of it, back before I—”

“That wasn’t you,” Steve says. “I know you’re not that person.”

“Do you?” It’s quieter than anything and more hurt than it should be. “You don’t know what’s happened to me—what’s been done to me,” Bucky says, clenching his jaw and curling his lip. “You don’t know what _I’ve done_.” As angry as the older man is, a tear still drops down his cheek without permission. He wipes it away furiously with the heel of his hand and rises to his feet quickly, shoving the chair back into the table. He looks around frantically and says, “If you’ve found me, the police will be here soon. I have to go.”

“Come with me.”

Bucky freezes like he did almost eighty-two years ago when Steve had first kissed him.

“Please come with me,” Steve begs, pushing himself up on his knees. “Please don’t run again. I can’t…I couldn’t live with myself if I had to watch you slip through my fingers again.”

He knows what this means for both of them; how their history has unfolded time after time. Their lives intertwine over and over for eternity; they ebb and flow, in and out, like waves against a shore. This time, he needs more than just water on his toes.

Bucky turns and there’s that unreadable expression again. Steve wishes he knew how to put words to the ache that the soldier carries. He scours the dictionary in his head but comes up empty. Maybe it’s only a language learned after years and years of torture. But doesn’t he hold his own anguish? Hasn’t he suffered enough?

Why is it never _enough_?

“If I come with you…” Bucky whispers, not meeting his gaze again. “If—It has to be you. Only you. Not Wilson, not Romanoff, not your Avengers. Just you, Steve.”

“Done.”

It comes tumbling out of his mouth before he can even process the demand. Steve knows he would’ve said yes either way, but the rush to say it shocks even him. Bucky nods, almost absentmindedly, and mutters, “We need to go now. If you’ve found me, they’re going to find me too.” He grabs his glove and pulls it on. “I have a car. Meet me outside in three minutes.”

Steve pushes and pulls himself up onto his feet as Bucky kneels and digs his metal fingers into the floorboards. The wood gives way easily, cracking into splinters as the soldier dives into the hollow space, pulling out a backpack.

Bucky doesn’t have to say it, because Steve already knows. Knows it contains everything too monstrous to be left in the open. Knows it contains everything too precious to be left behind.

So they say nothing as they share a quick glance and Bucky slips back out the door.

It’s quiet for a minute until Steve presses his fingers to the comm in his ear. His heart is beating heavy in his chest as he takes a deep breath and asks, “Sam, you there?”

“Yeah, Cap, I’m here. Barnes finally show up?”

This is when he has to make his choice. This is his crossroads and there is no coming back. There are choices he made easily: loving Bucky, joining the Army, putting down the Valkyrie. This was never going to be one of the easy ones. Steve has given his body, his life, his happiness for the world, but he won’t give up Bucky.

“Cap?” Sam repeats, the line crackling. “You there?”

“I have to go, Sam. Don’t bother with coming to Bucharest, we’re leaving now anyway,” he says, only to be met with silence. “It’s the only way to make sure he doesn’t run.” As if that was any justification. “Go back to DC and lay low. I’ll make contact when I know it’s safe.”

“How long will you be gone?” Sam knows better than to talk him out of this.

“I don’t know, Sam,” he says, voice thick with the realization that this might be goodbye. “It might—it might be a while.” He grabs his helmet off the fridge and feels his breath hitch. “If…if I don’t come back, tell everyone that I’m sorry. Tell them that I’m okay. That this was my choice.”

There is a painfully long silence on the other end of the line before Sam finally murmurs, “I’ll miss you, Cap.”

“I’m going to miss you too.”

The comm beeps as Steve takes it out of his ear and places it at the table. He grabs his shield and holds it on either side, pressing down the center until the plastic of the comm gives way to the vibranium. He reminds himself that this is what he has to do, what Bucky needs him to do, but it still makes his stomach turn anyway.

He strips out of the top of his uniform and feels his white undershirt stick to his body with day old sweat. God, he smells fucking awful.

Wrapping his shield and helmet in his jacket, he re-straps the gauntlets and gloves back on. There’s a thought in his head that says he looks ridiculous, skin showing through where sweat has soaked into the fabric and still in his combat pants, but this is the best he’s got.

There’s an old grey car waiting outside the apartment building and Steve has to do a double take before he realizes that it’s actually Bucky in the driver’s seat. He’s wearing a hat and sunglasses and has changed from a hoodie and jacket to an oversized sweater that somehow makes him look twice as small.

Steve slides in the passenger’s seat and sees something akin to desire flash in the older man’s eyes as Bucky takes him in.

“You look ridiculous,” the soldier says, pulling the car away from the curb.

“I know, I know,” he mutters tiredly, tossing the bundle into the back seat next to the backpack. The roads are busy but Bucky seems to know where he’s going, driving out of the city quickly. Bucharest disappears into small towns before Steve finally gets the courage to ask, “Where are we going?”

“Greece.”

“We’re going all the way to Greece?”

“Stop complaining, it’s only an eight hour drive,” Bucky says, rolling his eyes and dropping his metal hand off the wheel to his lap. “Plus, it’s a hell of a lot warmer than Romania.”

Steve nods, his head drifting a little as he finally collects himself. However long he had been asleep has only taken the edge off the exhaustion. Bucky glances at him and he leans his head back against the headrest, muttering in advance of any questions, “Buck, I’m fine.”

“When was the last time you slept?”

He chuckles a little, breathless and short, and shrugs. “Not counting however long I passed out at your apartment, a week ago,” he says, leather gloves creaking as he unclenches his fists. His entire body feels like it’s humming with electricity but the only noise in his head seems to be a constant stream of white noise. “I’m fine though, seriously. I don’t need you worrying about me.”

“Worrying ‘bout you is kind of my thing, isn’t it?” the soldier mumbles, keeping his eyes on the road as his flesh hand flexes on the steering wheel. “Guess old habits die hard.”

It’s an innocuous comment, but it’s enough to shut them both up.

They drive for an hour before Steve feels himself begin to nod off again. His eyelids sag and his head hangs before he comes back to reality, jerking awake with a small gasp. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he hears Bucky say, “You can rest if you need to. It’s going to be a long drive.” Steve looks at him, the sleep deprivation beginning to blur the edges of the brunet’s dark hair. There’s a flash of grey-blue eyes as Bucky turns to face him, whispering softly, “I won’t hurt you. I couldn’t ever hurt you.”

Steve nods, leaning his cheek against the headrest. The other man turns back to the road and he watches Bucky’s strong profile fade to the darkness of slumber.

* * *

_The clock on the wall ticks and ticks and ticks and ticks._

_His hair is stuck to his head with sweat and grease and week-old pomade. He hasn’t showered since last Monday and hasn’t moved from the spot on his couch since two nights ago. All he’s been able to do is sit and smoke._

_He knew this day would come. His Ma never talked about it much after she got the diagnosis. Not even when they sat in the doctor’s office and the man told her that she had months, maybe a year, left on this earth. Steve had always thought it was gonna be him getting the news, not his too-good-for-this-world Ma._

_And now she was gone._

_The cigarette in his hand is half gone already and it’s the tenth one he’s gone through since the sun first came up. There’s a deep, rattling wheeze that cuts through his lungs as he pulls his arm up to take another deep inhale._

_Smoke floods out through his nostrils as a sharp knock on the door. He knows it’s Bucky; the phone line’s been ringing non-stop for the past two days. A muffled voice on the other side of the door shouts, “Stevie! Lemme in!” There’s more banging and then a hard boot against wood. “You better not be dead because I’m gonna kill you if you ain’t!”_

_If only either were true._

_The lock clicks and damn his love’s spare key. The older boy’s voice is more clear as his footsteps echo in the kitchen. “Steve, where are you! Steve, I—”_

_His voice cuts off as he rounds the corner into the living room._

_Bucky’s face falls as he understands immediately what has happened. “Oh no, Steve…she’s not…”_

_“I found her Friday morning,” Steve mutters, voice numb as he wipes the dried salt from his face. He had stopped crying yesterday. Ash falls onto his lap as he coughs roughly, his chest constricting from the grief more than the smoke. His next inhale is tight and choked and brings tears to Bucky’s eyes. “Funeral’s tomorrow.”_

_Bucky hangs his head and lets out a short sob. Steve knows how hard this is for him. Sarah was as much Bucky’s mother as she was his own. But Bucky has no right to cry; he wasn’t the one that was up all night listening to her cough and choke, wasn’t the one that found her crumpled on the floor where she had tried to get to him. But still, Bucky does the right thing—the required thing—and grabs Steve’s hand, pressing his lips to his palm as he whispers, “I’m so sorry, Steve.”_

_He nods, almost uncaringly, and pulls his hand out of his boyfriend’s grip. “Yeah, I know Buck.”_

_The nineteen year old raises his head and stares at him with bloodshot eyes full of concern. “Steve, are you okay?” He nods again, still staring comatosely at the wall as he takes another long pull from the cigarette. The dehydration makes his body feel tight, his mouth like sandpaper as he swallows with an audible click. “Steve,” Bucky murmurs, bracketing his hands on either slide of his face, “baby, look at me. Look at me, please.”_

_“‘m complete shit,” Steve mumbles, wheezing heavily as Bucky puts a hand on his chest to assess the damage. His chin quivers as he struggles to keep everything together. “Probably the worst person in the whole damn world.”_

_Bucky sighs and pulls the cigarette from his hand, wetting his other fingers to pinch the end. “You’re not the worst person in the world,” he hums softly, sniffing the smoke out. “I’d argue that you’re one of the best we’ve got.” His face is full of concern, though, as he runs a thumb across Steve’s cheekbone. “You’re not shit. I think I’d know.”_

_A sob wracks Steve’s thin body as he folds over, burying his face in his hands. The wall he’s been building to protect him from the grief finally collapses. “I’m g-glad she’s d-dead,” he cries, the tears unable to be shed from his dry eyes. “And I h-hate myself for b-bein’ glad.”_

_It was true; he was glad that her suffering and sickness was over, but the relief had turned bitter in his heartbreak._

_Bucky’s hands are heavy and warm on his shaking shoulder as he gasps between sobs. His chest is so tight and from far away he can hear the other boy say, “You’re not glad she’s…Steve? Hey, no, no, no, stay with me, breathe.” Bucky pulls Steve’s hands off his face and tries to manhandle him upright. “God damn it, how many of those fucking cigarettes did you smoke?”_

_Steve isn’t sure if it’s the heartbreak or his asthma that is wrapping its deadly fingers around his neck, but it might as well be the former with the way he wheezes, “Lemme…be…Buck…”_

_“Can’t let you be, what would your M—“_

_Bucky’s voice fails him when he realizes how the sentence should end._

_The room spins and Steve is still crying, still wheezing, still choking as he lurches off the couch. The muscles in his legs and abdomen spasm and he tumbles into the coffee table. The corner catches his knee and a sharp pain shoots up his leg. Bucky shouts something, but Steve can’t hear it over his own coughing and the ringing in his ears._

_“Lea…me…a…lone…” he heaves weakly, falling to his hands and knees on the floor. He can feel his chest crushing into his back and hopes to God this is just the end. He’d give everything in the world to let the guilt eat him alive. Then he can be with his Ma again._

_His vision whites out and when he comes back, he’s up in Bucky’s arms, face pressed against his broad shoulder. One of the older boy’s strong, worn hands is up around his head and the other holds him firmly under his thighs. Steve has stopped crying but the heartbreak is still pulling his throat tight and it’s a struggle to keep his eyes open. The world blurs as Bucky lays him gently on his bed. “Where’s your nebulizer, you boob?” he mutters, feigning lightheartedness as he digs around in Steve’s closet._

_Steve doesn’t answer, just turns his face to the wall, sternum sinking down into his chest as he struggles for air._

_“Steve, you’re gonna fucking die if you don’t tell me where your goddamn nebulizer is!” Bucky suddenly shouts in a rage, voice dripping with fury. He turns back to the nineteen year old and watches saltwater streak down Bucky’s tan cheeks._

_And then Steve chokes out one single, broken, gasped word. “Good.”_

_He flinches when his lamp shatters against the wall, Bucky suddenly looming over him, arms on either side of Steve’s shoulders. The older boy’s eyes are dark and his body shakes as he clenches his jaw. “You might be ready to give up and join your Ma, but I’m not gonna let you. I love you too damn much and you’re the only damn person in the world I got, just like I’m all you got now. So tell me where your fuckin’ nebulizer is, or I’m gonna knock your teeth—”_

* * *

“Steve?”

He wakes with a loud gasp, clawing at his chest and throat like he’s still back in his asthma attack. His lungs expand and collapse wildly as he struggles to come back to the reality he’s been thrown into. The dirt road rumbles underneath the car as low, green foliage passes by. Steve grips his thighs to steady his heartbeat, focusing on the worn feel of his tac pants.

He can smell the salt of the ocean as the sun dips into the water.

“I was having a n—was just having a dream,” Steve mutters, the skin of his cheeks burning.

“You were having a nightmare,” Bucky says plainly, taking a turn down a seemingly abandoned path. “It’s okay to say it, it’s just me. I know a thing or two about them.”

Even when they were kids, Bucky would hide every pain, every anxious thought behind his humor and his pride. Even when George Barnes had come home drunk after the stock market crash cost him his job and thrown Bucky down two flights of stairs, the thirteen year old had just joked about how tough the black eyes, assorted bruises, and broken arm made him look.

Old habits do die hard.

“It was right after Ma died, when I tried to follow her,” Steve says, picking at the bottom edge of one of his gloves. “You threatened to knock my teeth in if I didn’t give you my nebulizer.” He wonders if that’s even a memory Bucky has now, with the way the older man is staring straight ahead at the road like he hasn’t even heard a single word Steve’s said. “Do you remember any of that?”

“I remember you being a fucking idiot, but that’s most of the memories that have come back of you,” the soldier snaps, shutting Steve up effectively.

A pregnant silence envelopes the car as the road narrows among the thick trees.

“Anything else?”

“Don’t know what else there is to remember about you,” Bucky shrugs and Steve wants to scream ‘Me, You, _Us_ ,’ at the top of his lungs.

The road ends at a small stucco bungalow, the exterior painted a vivid pale blue that reminds Steve of Bucky’s eyes. There are cracks in a couple of the terra-cotta roof tiles and a ladder leaning against the side of the house. The trees shelter its view from the path but there is a wide expanse of saltwater down the beach in front. Bucky pulls up to the house and kills the engine, climbing out of the car silently. The door slams and the back one opens as the soldier pulls out his backpack and Steve’s shield and uniform.

It’s quiet, save for the waves against sand and scattered birds singing their evening songs.

“How did you get this place?” Steve asks, boots crunching in the dirt as he follows the brunet to the front door. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was the second place I found after I left D.C.,” Bucky says, pulling a key from the wooden beams holding the porch roof up. “Old man collapsed on the side of the road with a heart attack. I saved him and he let me stay here. Six months later, I find him on the kitchen floor. Another heart attack. There was a note in his things that said if anything happened to him, the place was mine.” The lock clicks and the door creaks open. “I stayed here for two more months before I went to Marrakesh.”

“It seems quiet here.”

“Closest person is 4 miles away,” Bucky says, setting everything down on a table and turning on the lights. The tile floors glow in the low light and there’s a wooden couch covered in a cloth with oranges printed on it. It’s warm and inviting and no wonder it’s the first place Bucky thought of.

Some part of Steve’s head whispers that he never wants them to leave.

“The bedroom is down the hall past the bathroom,” the soldier mutters, ducking into the open kitchen and filling a kettle with water. “It’s yours for however long we’re here. I’m fine sleeping on the couch.”

Is it too early to ask for Bucky to be by his side? To curl up against Steve like they used to from the time they were teenagers? To let him press his face against Bucky’s neck like he was born to do?

“I’m not tired,” Steve says, closing the door behind him and squatting down to unlace his boots. “Sleeping in the car was enough. You’re more than welcome to take it.” The smell of instant coffee floats through the house and it immediately takes him back to the foxholes of Europe. “Unless...”

Bucky emerges from the kitchen holding two mugs. “Come on,” he says, “let’s get some air.”

The wind has started to pick up and the sky is a dark navy as they walk down to the water’s edge. Bucky sits and rolls his pant legs up with his metal hand as the other clutches the coffee cup. The waves unfurl over his toes and Steve drops to the sand beside him. They sit in silence and drink their coffee until their cups are empty and discarded.

The metal arm whirs as Bucky drags his fingers through the sand, knees pulled up to his chest. Steve watches the movements, entranced as the joints shift and lock to keep the debris out. He’s never touched that arm in the way he wants to, to run his fingers up and down the plates to see if it wants to keep him out as well. Bucky swallows thickly and chews on the inside of his lip for a minute before whispering, “Just ask me.”

He looks up from the arm and chokes out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Just ask what they did to me. You asked the night we got back to camp from Azzano what they did and I told you without even thinking,” Bucky hums, admitting more than Steve knows he wants to. “So I know you’re going to ask me eventually.”

Steve looks down at his lap and shifts to mirror the older man’s position. His hand shakes as he reaches over to touch Bucky’s side. It’s cold and hard underneath fabric and skin and doesn’t give the same way bone does. How much of his love had been taken from him? How much of his love has been replaced?

“How much of it do you remember?” he mumbles, the fabric of the soldier’s shirt tangling in his fingers. “If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t h—”

“When I was sick in Azzano, they would just strap me down and stick shit down my throat, but this time was different.” Bucky turns his head and rests his cheek on his knees, staring at Steve’s hand out of the corner of his eye. “It wasn’t just about seeing if my body was what they wanted; it was about opening me up, seeing how much my body would take before it gave out. After the serum—after my arm—the first thing they did was strap me down and open me up. Sternum to my hip. Kept me like that for almost a day, watching my heart beat in my ribs, watching my kidneys struggle to keep going.”

Steve’s stomach flips as the other man leans back and lifts up his shirt, the faintest, thinnest scar shining in the moonlight.

“They would…” Bucky’s voice falters as he curls back up again. “They would throw me in these chambers. Test mustard gas on me. I thought I was dying every single time.”

“Mustard gas kills you,” Steve says, eyebrows knitting together. “Hell, it killed my dad.”

“Yeah, imagine how I felt when I was in there,” Bucky says, turning back to the water. “I had a thought, when my lungs were shutting down, that I must have felt like you did before…” The ocean comes up higher and higher until it begins to soak through the seats of their pants. “Sometimes, they would cut power to my arm and string me up by my neck. Not enough to kill me, but high enough that my toes would barely touch the ground. I think the longest time they had me like that was three days or so.”

Steve rubs his burning eyes and feels tears soak the heel of his hand. He’s not sure why he’s the one crying and Bucky is the one numbly watching him. He has no right to cry over this. He should be comforting Bucky instead of making this all about him.

“Steve, it’s _fine_ ,” the soldier says bluntly, as if reading his mind, always reading his mind.

A sob catches in his chest as he shakes his head, saltwater washing over his hands and knees as he crawls across the beach to settle in between Bucky’s legs. “It’s _not_ fine,” he begs, chin quivering as the older man’s body conforms to make space for his own. “I should have _been_ there. I should have let them hurt me instead of you.”

Bucky’s eyes are bloodshot in the pale white light but his mouth opens slightly as they fall back, Steve’s hands sinking in the sand to hover above him. “I’m glad you weren’t there,” the brunet whispers, voice barely audible as their faces come within inches of one another. “I couldn’t live if I had to watch them put you though what I suffered. I love you too much to let that happen.”

A breath punches its way out of Steve’s chest. “You remember.”

Bucky nods imperceptibly, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and says, “They took everything from me, but they were never able to take you.”

It’s the drop that breaks the dam, tears leaking out of Bucky’s eyes as Steve leans down and closes the last of the space between them. It’s tender at first, noses brushed together and mouths sharing oxygen like it’s the only breathable air around. He swipes a sand-covered thumb across the sharp curve of the soldier’s cheekbone, leaving a smear of salty powder behind. He pulls back to look at the other man for a second, bathed in silver, before giving in to the inevitable and finally kissing him.

The ocean tumbles up underneath them as Bucky’s tears slip back into his hairline and Steve doesn’t know where the saltwater begins or ends.

* * *

_“I got drafted.”_

_Steve drops the plate in his hand and hears it shatter on the ground. His already poor heart damn near stops dead in his chest as tears flood his eyes and all he can do is stare at the man at the table. Bucky pulls his hands out from under the tablecloth and sets the letter out into the open where it can poison them both. He tries to swallow but the lump in his throat won’t go down. “B-But you can’t, you can get out of it. You work at the docks, they’re gonna—”_

_Bucky nods absentmindedly and runs a shaking hand through his hair._

_In all their years together, Steve has never seen his boyfriend like this. A tear slips down onto the red fabric and the older man sniffs quietly, staring down at the letter like it’s going to catch fire. Steve’s chest tightens and he hesitates before choking out, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”_

_“I don’t work at the docks anymore.”_

_His blood runs cold and the entire apartment spins. He lurches forward, feeling the shards of porcelain embed in his feet, but it doesn’t hurt as much as the burning ache in his chest. “Wha—what are you talking about...” Bucky doesn’t answer him and it only makes his panic spiral further. “Bucky, what are you—”_

_“I got laid off two months ago,” the brunet whispers, tucking his shaking hands underneath his thighs. “I found a job pretty quick, balancing Mr. Eddlestien’s books for his stores; you know how good I am at math. But I couldn’t bear to tell you for this exact reason.” He looks up at Steve, eyes rimmed in red. “I know how much the draft kept you up at night.”_

_Steve wants to shout, wants to cry, wants to scream until his lungs give out. But he doesn’t. All he can do is breathe, “I’m going to lose you, aren’t I?”_

_He can see the second Bucky’s exterior cracks, his head nodding again until a shuddering breath falls out of his mouth and his face crumples like tracing paper. Bucky hangs his head and just sobs at the realization that he is going to die thousands of miles away, at the end of the world without his love._

_Steve looks down and watches blood seep from between his toes._

* * *

There’s an aching pain deep in his chest when he blinks himself awake. The other side of the bed is empty and Steve runs his hands across the cold linen sheets.

It had been a month since they came to the house and have fallen into an easy rhythm. Bucky makes breakfast while Steve goes on morning swims. Sometimes they eat inside, but most of the time they sit on the porch and let the sun warm them as they pick at their food. Every Friday night, Bucky lights _Shabbos_ candles. Once a week they walk to the village and pick up supplies, taking turns pulling the old wooden garden cart. It’s a ten mile walk and he comes back sunburnt every time, but he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They sit on the beach and talk sometimes, kiss sometimes, touch each other sometimes. Sometimes they’ll fall into the house—into their bed—but more often than not, they just lay in the sand and reclaim what they’ve lost.

However Bucky has never gotten out of bed at night.

Until now.

There’s soft light pouring into the bedroom through the cracked door as Steve hauls himself out of bed. He scrubs a hand over the stubble on his unshaved face and pads quietly across the stone floor. Through the opening, he watches Bucky sit on the couch, hunched over with his forearms on his thighs, the older man rocking back and forth slowly.

“ _Stable. Burning. Mine. Fidelity. Eighteen. Brighton. Promise. Steve._ ”

Bucky’s voice is quiet as he repeats the words in perfect sequence over again, clenching his hands around his knees. He looks up quickly when Steve creaks the door open, dark circles staining the soldier’s eyes. He sits up and ducks his head, muttering, “I’m sorry for getting out of bed, I’ll come—”

“Were those the words?” Steve asks quietly, not knowing what to do with his hands so he curls them into fists at his side. The older man had talked about it briefly; that the Russians would use words to take control of him and he has a growing dread that his own name might have been one of them. “The ones Hydra used?”

“They’re not Hydra’s words.” Bucky shakes his head and looks up to meet his gaze.

“Then what—”

“They’re _mine_.”

The ache in his chest begins to unknot and Steve lets out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.

“After I left you at the Potomac, I felt like I was having withdrawals,” the other man mutters as Steve crosses the room and sits in the chair opposite the couch. The coffee table separates them but it might as well be a wall in Steve’s eyes. “It was like my mind couldn’t handle all the memories coming back; like I needed to be wiped again.” Bucky chews on the inside of the lips as he ponders the choice of his next words. “So I did the only thing I knew: I used new words to control myself.”

The silence falls heavily over them and there’s nothing they can do but stare at each other again.

Almost half an hour passes before Steve gets the courage to ask, “Can you...can you tell me what the words are?”

Bucky looks up from the table and takes a slow breath. “ _Stable,_ ” he starts, eyes bright and dark at the same time as he pierces the space between them. “ _Burning. Mine. Fidelity. Eighteen. Brighton. Promise. Steve._ ” He reaches out and smoothes his hand on the table. “You. It’s always been you holding me down, holding my heart and head in. Always you; only you.”

Steve leans over and twists his fingers in the empty spaces between the metal.

He wonders how much Bucky’s arm can feel. Wonders if the soldier can feel Steve’s heart pounding heavy through his wrist. Wonders if he can feel the flush that sleep didn’t take away. He must, because Steve watches his eyes dart down for a split second as his mouth parts. But whatever Bucky is about to say disappears as he only lets out a heavy sigh and pulls his hand away.

“Penny for your thoughts, Buck?” Steve murmurs, offering a careful smile. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

The older man worries his bottom lip with his teeth for almost a minute before he sighs again. “If it all ended and you had to walk away from it: your shield, the Avengers, being Captain America…” His hands clench into fists on his knees again and he looks across at Steve. “Would I be enough for you?”

“What are you saying?”

Bucky shrugs and offers a hopeful, “What if we didn’t leave? What if we just stayed here and finally left the war behind?” He stands, coming around the table to sit between Steve’s legs, kissing each bare knee with care. Steve has to catch his breath when Bucky looks up at him with more love than he could ever deserve and asks, “Would that be such a bad ending?”

He shakes his head because, no, it wouldn’t be a bad ending. It’s the best ending Steve can imagine, but he’s still not sure if it’s the ending he deserves.

He let his Ma die without doing more, let Bucky go off to war without doing a damn thing.

He let Bucky fall.

He left Bucky _behind_.

Steve’s throat feels tight and his eyes burn and he struggles to hold the tears back as he nods. “All I want is you. It’s all I’ve _ever_ wanted.” He curls his hands around the base of the soldier’s skull and pulls Bucky up into his lap. “I want to stay. I want to stay here with you until we’re old and grey and can’t fuck anymore.”

Bucky kisses him, hard and wanting, and the guilt begins to melt ever so slightly. A smirk washes over his face and the older man murmurs, “Now there’s that Brooklyn boy I fell in love with. Come on, I think it’s time to go back to bed.”

Steve crawls into bed as Bucky cracks the windows open. The cool, ocean breeze floods the room with salt that sticks to their skin. The humid air blankets them as they curl up on the old mattress, bodies slicked together with sweat. But the sheets are cool and crisp and tent their intertwined bodies.

He traces the sharp angles of Bucky’s face with his fingertips, up his sharp jaw and down his curved cheekbones. The soldier’s dark lashes spread against tan skin as Steve hums, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Steve.” A soft sigh follows. “I’m glad you wanted to stay.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

* * *

_It feels like their first kiss all over again._

_When they get outside the factory, they’re singed and covered in ash and black powder. Bucky, shaking and still dazed and looks at Steve like he isn’t real. The older man folds over, resting his elbows on his thighs as he sucks in cool, fresh air. “I’m dead,” he chokes, shaking his head and looking up at Steve. “I gotta be dead because that’s the only thing I know of that’ll explain you being right in front of me, looking like that.”_

_Steve crouches down in front of him and cups the soldier’s face in his hands. “I’m alive and you’re alive,” he promises. “Nothing in the world can take you from me.”_

_The older man nods like he’s practiced it, eyes wide and so distant that it makes Steve’s stomach clench. Bucky’s chin shakes. “You should be back home,” he whispers, numb voice on the edge of tears. “Not here. Not here where everyone dies.”_

_He smoothes a hand over Bucky’s dark, sweat slick hair and says, “I didn’t. You didn’t.”_

_Death had been following the both of them for year and they had continue to outrun it, even now. When Bucky was a teenager—life teetering with every step he was thrown down—and ever since Steve had been born. Death had tried to come for both of their lives, their happiness, but they each had fought it off. Fought to be together._

_He can’t let Bucky forget that for even a single second, so he kisses him._

_Grabs him and kisses him like he did back in 1934, all desperation and the need to calm the anxious thoughts in both their heads. His heart sinks altogether when Bucky only stares ahead blankly, eyes open as he allows himself to be kissed._

_“Buck, look at me,” Steve says, voice on the edge of demanding._

_The brunet looks at him shakily, his thousand yard stare lengthening as he begs, “Please don’t leave me again. Promise that you’ll never leave me; that we won’t leave each other as long as we’re alive.” His hands fist the blue fabric of Steve’s uniform. “I can’t lose you again, מיין ליב, otherwise I’ve got nothing to live for.”_

_It’s not like it used to be, when Steve pulls the dark haired man against his chest. It used to be Bucky’s sharp cheekbones against Steve’s thin sternum. Now it’s so far away from what he knows that he can’t even put words to it._

_It makes him regret his decision to take the serum, makes him homesick for a time they can’t return to._

_“Remember your thirteenth birthday? When we went to the abandoned tenement and our folks were so mad that we stayed out so late?” Steve hums, combing his fingers through Bucky’s hair. “It was right before your dad broke your arm. You took me to that building and we went up on the roof. Looked at the stars for hours.” Bucky’s shaky breathing begins to slow and his fists relax their grip. “That was the night I fell in love with you.”_

_He remembers it like it was yesterday. The way the hazy streetlights from below mixed with the bright white stars above them, casting them in silver. Bucky had looked at him, crooked grin spread all the way across his face as Steve had pointed out the constellations._

_And that was when Steve had realized how gone he was on him._

_Bucky pulls away and sits back on his knees. He’s more stable, more focused, like something has pulled his mind back into his body. “You should have told me then,” he whispers, breathless like he can’t keep the air in his lungs. “We could have had more time together.”_

_Steve leans forward and brushes the sweat-slicked hair out of his face. “We have the rest of our lives to be together, Buck. You just gotta be patient.”_

_They never had enough time before the war, but they had a future beyond the fight._

_He could feel it in his soul._

* * *

It’s been two—no— _three_ years since they came to the little blue house on the beach.

Steve wakes up first, getting coffee started while his husband continues snoring on the bed. It had been a quiet ceremony; a priest, Sam, and three of the other farmer’s market workers the only guests on the beach with them as they exchanged vows. His thumb twists the gold ring on his finger absentmindedly as he scrubs a hand over his beard and pulls on his faded work jeans.

A loud ‘Mahaaah’ echoes in the yard as Craig runs up to the fence, butting the fence with her forehead. He climbs over the gate and laughs as she rams her head against his shin. Bucky had brought the goat home from the village one night, declaring his name was Craig, until Steve pointed out that ‘Craig’ was a girl. Bucky had huffed and said, “Her name is still Craig.”

Over the years, they’ve added Delores, Bean, and Pineapple to their group, with the babies Greta Garbo and Doris Day, plus 20 or so chickens that neither of them bother naming, aside from the one named Pigeon Wilson, who was semi-affectionately named after a visit from Sam.

‘Maaahaaaahhh,’ Delores and Bean whine, trotting out of the small shed. Pineapple, always his sweet Pineapple, waits patiently by the food bins.

“I’m coming, _ηρέμησε_ ,” he mutters, tucking the front of his tank top into his pants. Running his hands across the carved beams of the shed, he ducks back into the stacked buckets. He pulls one out of the stack and says, “Come on girls, breakfast!”

He pours the feed mix into the trays and restocks the hay before moving into the chicken coop. He releases them into the fenced-in yard and fills the water and food dishes before climbing out. A smile pulls at his lips when he sees Bucky step out of the house, hair pulled up into a messy bun and sleep shorts hanging low on his hips. Steve heads toward the fence, jumping a little when Craig bumps him again. As Bucky laughs, Steve climbs over the gate and mutters, “Why does Craig hate me so much? I just want her to love me.”

“She is my small angry daughter, don’t you dare say a single word about her, _Σταύρος_ ,” Bucky mocks, using the name on his doctored passport.

“Don’t call me ‘ _Σταύρος_ ’, _Δημήτριος_ ,” Steve retorts, watching the other man’s face scrunch up in annoyance. Learning Greek was easy—even with Bucky complaining about Steve’s eidetic memory the entire two weeks of studying—but his pronunciation was just a tad squeaky. Nevertheless, he spoke it well enough to blend in with the native speakers, passing off that he grew up just outside of _Ιωάννινα_.

“Do you have work today?” Bucky asks, taking a sip from his mug.

“Yeah, I’m going to _Παλιούρι_ to put a new frame on Mrs. Karatosas’s front door. Maybe fix the sagging beam in her dining room,” he mutters, stepping forward and leaning in to place a chaste kiss on the corner of the older man’s mouth. “I should be back around four.”

Bucky shifts his mug to his metal hand and runs the other through Steve’s long hair. It’s grown enough to curl out under his ears and has turned a dark blond from the salt. He won’t admit it, but he’s never going to cut it again, not with the way Bucky will twist his fingers into it and pull when they fall into bed together.

“Hmmm,” he hums, brushing a thumb over Steve’s jaw. “Need me to milk Delores and Bean while you’re gone? Maybe do the dishes?”

“What’s the rule?”

Bucky sighs, rolling his eyes to mask the smirk on his face. “I’m not allowed to do anything except what I want to do.” He feigns desperation and asks, “How long is this rule going to be in effect?”

“Seventy years. Long enough to beat the years you were forced into doing everything you never wanted.” They talked about this many times over their first year back together. Talked about how Steve had slept through all of the years that Bucky had spent forced to be a weapon. Steve had decided that it was only fair that Bucky gets to rest now.

The brunet nods again with no protests as he kisses Steve. “Fine,” he says, relenting to the words, “I might do a couple paintings. And I’m still doing the dishes.” Bucky wraps his arms around Steve and hooks his chin over his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too, Buck,” he murmurs, kissing him again before pinching Bucky’s side playfully. Bucky jerks, spilling half his coffee with a groan. Steve smirks and heads toward his truck. “Don’t miss me too much!” he calls, hopping in the cab and starting the engine.

His husband flips him off and shouts something, but he can’t hear it over the combined noise of the engine and the goats.

He spends the day repairing Mrs. Karatosas’s door, even convincing her to let him fix the ceiling beam. In his retirement, he had searched for things to keep himself occupied, ways to earn a little bit of money, and carpentry had fallen into his lap. It was something he was exceptionally good at and it gave him something to use his hands for other than fighting.

It’s a quiet life but, God, does he _love_ it.

Steve accepts dinner from Mrs. Karatosas and she tells him to take extra home for his husband. He drives back down the coast with Pastitsio, grilled octopus, and Tsoureki tucked against his side on the bench seat of his truck. He and Bucky eat on the beach, a thick blanket spread underneath them as the sun begins to turn to gold.

His head is on Bucky’s chest, metal fingers combing through his hair, when they hear an engine rumbling down the road. Steve sits up quickly, eyebrows knitting together as he asks, “Are you expecting anyone tonight?” A look of fear flashes in Bucky’s eyes as he tips his chin over his shoulder, shaking his head.

They stand as a black car pulls up to the house.

Pulling Bucky behind him, Steve feels his heart pound when a familiar face steps out of the car first. “… _Tony_?”

“Stand down, Rogers, we come in peace,” Tony says, holding his hands up as Sam climbs out of the other side of the car. Natasha is the last to exit, a small, hopeful smile on her face as she gives him a small wave. Tony crosses his arms and looks around the property before taking Steve in. “Jesus Christ, you really took the ‘on the run’ thing seriously, didn’t you?” he says, laughing under his breath.

“What are you doing here?” Steve asks warily, hand tightening around Bucky’s elbow behind him.

“You’re both free men,” Natasha says. “You can come _home_.”

They sit on the porch, Natasha and Sam in the white wooden love seat, while Bucky and Tony sit at opposite sides of the small table. “Okay,” Steve says, leaning back against the wooden column. “How did everyone find out that Bucky wasn’t in Vienna?”

Tony sets down his phone and pulls up the projection of a man strapped to a chair with a heavy metal harness. “Meet Helmut Zemo. Sokovian kill squad. Wanted to break up the team and tracked down an old mission of Barnes’s. My parents.” Steve’s heart stops in his chest as he looks over at Bucky, the older man ducking his head and chewing on his lip to keep his chin from shaking. He’s just about to open his mouth when Tony holds up a hand. “Calm down, I’m not here for revenge. We found the body of the man that gave the orders.”

Delores lets out a loud ‘Maaahaaah’ and Sam lets out a little laugh. “Want me to feed the goats, Steve?” he asks, standing up. Steve nods, relaxing a little as Sam steps over Nat’s legs to get out of the porch.

Bucky laughs a little when a chorus of bleating erupts as Sam climbs over the gate, and he wipes his eyes and sniffs quietly. Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and hums, “It’s okay.”

“I like your hardware,” Nat says with a smirk, raising her eyebrows at his ring.

“Figured it was about time,” he says with a shrug. “Who the hell knows if it’s actually legal or not, since we had to use our fake documents. But it was enough for us and that’s all that matters.”

“I’m kind of mad Sam got an invite to the wedding and I didn’t,” she says. “I thought we were friends.” There’s a hint of betrayal in her voice that Steve knows he deserves, but there’s an unsaid agreement between them that it was for the best. Natasha knows better than anyone the reasons to run.

“Well, if I was sure you weren’t going to call the CIA on us, I would have invited you,” he offers, eliciting another smirk from her.

“Well, good news, Cap,” Tony says, “you are no longer on the ‘Most Wanted’ list.” He leans forward and looks up at Steve. “We need you back. Even Vis has been asking about you. He and Wanda are a thing now, by the way. You weren’t there to talk her out of it, so I’m going to go ahead and place blame on you.” He stands and lets out a sigh. “Come back home. We need you with us. _Please_.”

Steve looks at Tony then down at his husband. Bucky’s jaw is set hard as he stares down at the table, waiting for the end of their felicity. “I’ll think about it, Tony, okay?” he says, flinching as Bucky stands up quickly and storms off into the house, slamming the door as he goes.

Natasha moves to go after him, but Steve shakes his head.

“Give him some space, Nat. He’ll come back out when he’s ready,” he says. “In the meantime, make yourselves at home.”

Tony goes for a swim while Natasha stretches out in the hammock, enjoying the peace and quiet. Steve tries to keep busy while the sun begins to set into the water, digging his fingers into the dirt of the extensive garden at the side of the house. It’s grown from the ten or so plants they started with to a huge plot of almost a thousand square feet. They freeze and can what they need and sell the rest at the market. It’s one of his continued pride and joys, watching things grow in the wake of all the destruction. So tonight, he kneels in between the rows of squash and corn, pulling weeds out one by one.

“He’s going to come out soon, don’t worry,” Sam says from behind him, coming out of the goat pen. “You actually thinking about going back?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” he mutters. “I really like being here. Doing things I’m good at.”

“Then just tell them you want to stay. Tell them you’re done being Captain America.” Sam crunches through the dirt and crouches down next to him. “I’m telling you this as a friend, but you look happier now that I ever saw you back in D.C. or New York. Enjoy being married, enjoy being retired; do normal people shit. It’s not always your responsibility.”

Steve sits back on his heels and wipes his hands on his jeans.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe he could say no for once in his life.

They pull more weeds until two of the rows are clear and he hears a quiet, “Steve?” He looks up to see Bucky standing at the edge of the garden, face blotchy from crying and arms crossed tight across his chest. The older man lets out a shaky breath and asks, “Did you make up your mind?”

Steve nods, mouth pressed thin. Bucky mirrors the motion and walks out of the garden, shoulders pulling up to his ears.

“You think you’re making the right decision?” Sam asks as they push themselves up.

“I don’t think there is a right decision,” he mutters, crossing the yard and going to sit in one of the chairs at the table. Bucky has taken the chair across from him, hands pulling his feet into his lap. He doesn’t look at him when Steve tries to console him, murmuring, “It’s going to be okay, Buck.”

The older man nods numbly, his bottom lip quivering as he swallows thickly.

Natasha swings out of the hammock and perches on the couch’s arm. Steve can see her take a worried glance at the two of them before becoming lost in thought. He’s seen that look once before, in Sam’s bedroom when they had realized how deep betrayal could run. He had asked for her thoughts then, but it feels like a lifetime ago. Steve knows he’s nowhere close to the person he used to be, and he doubts that Natasha is the same as well. Part of him wonders if they’re even still friends.

Sam sits down next to her, Tony coming out of the doorway, toweling his hair dry as light spills out behind him. He takes the last seat and looks around the group before stopping at Steve.

“So what’ll it be, Cap? Ready to get packing and come back to civilization?” he asks, leaning back and putting his feet up on the table. “I bet you miss WiFi and being able to order pizza whenever you want.”

They’ll have to find new homes for the goats. He’s going to cry when he gives up Pineapple. When she was just a kid, he used to go sleep in the shed with her, otherwise she would cry all night for him. Sam might have space in his backyard to keep Pigeon Wilson, but they’ll have to sell off the rest of the chickens. Maybe whoever buys the house will keep the garden. Won’t touch the ceiling beams Steve carved for their first anniversary. All the memories they made, all the healing they’ve done, will be left behind.

The quiet dreams they’ve kept for themselves.

He opens his mouth and Bucky closes his eyes, bracing for the decision they both know they have to make.

The last pool of golden sun sinks into the horizon and cool breezes blow.

He looks out at the navy blue ocean, watching the waves crash against the shore. He’s going to miss this. Waking up and fixing things, creating things, instead of giving in to the cycle of destruction that has followed him into the next century.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” he hears Natasha whisper, her voice sounding far away, like he’s underwater. He shakes his head as Bucky looks up with wide eyes. For a second, he can see heartbreak and betrayal flash across her face. But she composes herself in an instant, features going cold as she spits, “If that’s your choice.”

She stands and slips away silently, disappearing down the dark beach.

Steve watches her go, his throat tight with guilt. There’s muffled voices around him but he can’t make out what they’re saying. Not as Natasha walks out into the water, waves washing over her thighs.

“I don’t want to fight anymore, Tony,” he whispers, words coming out of their own accord. “I’ve been fighting all my life. All I want is somewhere quiet where I can finally find some peace.” He looks at the younger man, desperation dripping from his mouth as a breath punches its way out. “Is that so much to ask?”

Tony stares at him, studies him, and all Steve can hope is that this is the end. Bucky had asked him all those years ago, that if he had to walk away, would this be enough? Now the mere thought of losing this—of losing Bucky _again_ —scares the _hell_ out of him.

But then Tony just nods silently, a small smile twitching at his lips before he looks at Sam. “Well, Wilson, you’re finally getting that promotion you’ve been asking about.” Sam laughs a little, rolling his eyes before Tony turns back to Steve. “What do you say, Achilles? You got a shield in your closet that you might want to hand over to our resident Bird Boy?”

Sam follows him back into the bedroom and sits on the edge of the bed as Steve moves boxes around in the closet. It’s quiet, save for the rustling of cardboard and metal. He had packed the shield away the night that Bucky had asked him to stay. It had faded from his daily thoughts quickly, replaced by goats and gardening, by salt and sand. Leather in his palm replaced by chisels and hammers and nails.

The vibranium hums a little, dinging off the plaster wall as he pulls it from the closet.

Steve flips it in his hands before standing in front of Sam. He looks down at the white star and asks, “Do you want to try it on?”

He smiles a little as as the younger man rises, taking the shield carefully from him. Sam lets out a breathless little laugh and says, “It’s lighter than you would think.” He slides his arm through the leather straps and holds it close to his chest like he’s seen Steve do a million times. “I feel like I’m 5 years old and wearing my dad’s coat. Feels like it doesn’t fit.”

“It will. I promise,” Steve says quietly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Always fits eventually.”

The leather straps creak as Sam grips his hand into a fist, letting the shield hang down at his side. He lets out a soft breath and looks at Steve gratefully. “Thank you, Steve. I mean it, man, I…” his voice falters as he blinks back a tear. “I’ll try and make you proud.”

It’s a quiet embrace when Steve wraps his arms around Sam. The younger man’s arm comes up around his back and they stand there for minutes that feel like hours. There are so many unspoken words between them, but none so loud in the silence as, “ _Thank you._ ” Thank you for saving me. Thank you for standing by my side. Thank you for being there. For being my friend.

They don’t speak again as they exit the house and Sam ducks back into the car.

Steve crosses his arms over his chest, hair blowing in the cool breeze as he stares out into the water. Bucky is down there with Natasha, words disappearing in the tide as they talk. He can’t even imagine what they’re discussing; the horrors of Soviet Russia, the feeling of never being quite safe. Finding love after the trauma. Everything that Steve couldn’t hope to grasp unless he lived through it himself.

“The kids are gonna miss you,” Tony says, sauntering onto the porch and leaning against a beam. “I understand why you didn’t tell me about my parents.” His voice is quieter this time, softer. “I know you and Howard were friends. It must have been hard finding out it was Barnes.”

He nods tiredly. It’s getting late. He needs to pack up the girls and lock the chicken coop.

“I’m going to miss you too, Steve,” Tony says and it takes a second for Steve to realize that it’s the first time Tony has ever called him by his first name. The billionaire holds out his hand and says, “Don’t worry, you can’t get rid of us that easily. Clint already mentioned to Nat that he’s planning a family vacation. Don’t be surprised if the Barton Bunch shows up.”

“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Steve says, shaking his hand. “That and any other visits.”

Tony barks out a laugh and shakes his head. “In your dreams Rogers. You have the shittiest cell signal I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he says, heading toward the car. “Plus, world’s going to need a lot more saving now that Steve Rogers is officially retired.”

Footsteps crunch in the sand as Bucky and Natasha come up from the water. Steve opens his mouth but Natasha just glares at him quickly before stalking off to the car. The door slams and he lets out a little sigh. “It’s okay,” Bucky murmurs, lacing their fingers together. “She just needs time. People are allowed to be mad at you.”

He waves a little bit as the car pulls away. “Do you think I made the right choice?” he asks, voice thick as he tries to hold back tears.

“I don’t know, Stevie,” the older man says, leaning in and kissing him gently. “But it was your choice.” Bucky gives him a little smile, the inside lights illuminating his bright eyes. “Now, let’s go get everyone in for the night.” He releases Steve’s hand and heads toward the shed. “Pineapple needs her goodnight kiss from you.”

Steve watches the car disappear down the road, watches the moon glow on the water, watches the waves crash on the shore.

“I’m coming, Buck” he whispers, letting out a breath he’s been holding for too long. “I’m coming.”

 

* * *

  

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, a couple translations for y’all!
> 
> •מיין ליב: (meyn lib) Yiddish for “My love” — Bucky would have likely spoken Yiddish as a first language at home before ever learning English as a Jew in New York in the early 1900’s.  
> •ηρέμησε: (irémise) Greek for “calm down”  
> •Σταύρος: (Stavros) Greek equivalent for “Steven” — I could have gone with Stefanos but that’s a closer equivalent to ‘Stefan’ than ‘Steven’ and Stavros is such a cool name  
> •Δημήτριος: (Dimitrios) Greek equivalent for “James” — There’s no true equivalent for James, which derives from New Testament Greek (Iákōbos) and from the Hebrew version of Jacob, (Yaʻaqov.) So Dimitrios ended up from James and I just went with it.  
> •Παλιούρι: (Paliouri) A small town in Greece. Paliouri is just down the peninsula from Thessaloniki and close to the village that Bucky and Steve are closest to; which, while not mentioned, is Ξυνά (Xina)  
> •Also not mentioned in the fic, but the last name Bucky and Steve chose was βάρος (Baros) which is the closest equivalent to “Barnes” I could find!
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed reading and I hope you loved the art as much as I did! We can’t wait to hear your feedback! Comments and kudos rock!


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